


After the Fall

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Complicated Relationships, Darkness Around The Heart, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, It's A Complicated Russian Romance, One Shot, Season/Series 04, Skirting Around the Damage, Smut, Trauma, lmao @ that tag (I can't)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 04:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15699906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Time passes since Joan's strip search. Once again, she's taken to medical. This time, the Governor confronts her.Welcome to the Death Palace: there is no cure to their mutual sickness, only a warped sense of comfort.





	After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butchfriendCameron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butchfriendCameron/gifts).



> As always, I take ten years to complete prompts. This one originally came from @butchfriend on Twitter, taking place after the strip search between Joan and Vera in S4. This fic was based off a loose interpretation of a dream they had.
> 
> This was difficult for me to write. However, please note that no graphic mentions of sexual abuse, assault, or Joan’s rape are delved into for the sake of my own comfort and everyone else’s. The trauma is mentioned and circled around in a way I believe that these two would discuss it. 
> 
> I still believe Joan was done a great injustice…

> “Oh, I know well I am feared by people:  
> They burn the likes of me for wizard wiles  
> And as of poison in a hollow smaragd  
> Of my art die.”
> 
> _What is the Evil Deed?_ – Vladimir Nabokov
> 
> “I know that you'll find me there  
>  After the fall, I know that you're waiting,  
>  I know that you'll find me there.”
> 
> _After the Fall_ – Chelsea Wolfe

A no-name guard escorts Joan Ferguson to medical. Sierra This or That preoccupies himself with the job: another Neanderthal to replace the duly departed Mr. Fletcher. May he tend to his flock and never part the Red Sea.

Days melt into weeks in the way wax drips down a votive candle. She remembers the despicable morning in the showers, she remembers it all too well. The memory screws the inmate’s jaw shut. Renders her null and void, sufficiently numb in her teal armor that feels so uncomfortable – scratchy, woolen, raw – compared to the Governor’s uniform.

Nurse Radcliffe busies herself elsewhere, no doubt coiled around Wentworth’s Snakey Jakey. From behind the blue curtain, a holy fool makes her presence. Governor Bennett swallows, as if she’s Daniel in the Lion’s Den, but these archaic stories grow old. The door is closed, the hallway past the plexiglass vacant; it’s just the two of them again.

Welcome to the Death Palace.

Joan takes the Queen’s Gambit. This is her opening move. Neatly, she locks her fingers before her curvaceous waist. Brow quirked, her lips purse. Trauma leaves her wary, guarded. Numb and detached, she stands stiller than stone.

“Here for your pound of flesh, I take it?”

Let her regret consume her not. She prefers not to be treated like a magpie with broken wings.

Judas finds her voice; she can’t thank a glass of Pinot for that, but _God_ , how she wished she drank before contemplating this execution.

“Tell me who did this to you,” Miss Bennett demands, her actions continuing to mirror her fallen mentor. She folds her hands, her cards hidden, but her heart’s pinned to her sleeve.

 Ferguson sneers. A dark thing sleeps inside her. She loathes appearing weak before her adversary turned betrayer. A surge of irritation runs through her.

“The type of meek, submissive woman who’s incapable of speaking for herself.”

“You won’t let anyone touch you, not even the nurse. Do you think yourself impervious, Joan?”

Vera clucks like a hen, dotes like a handmaiden. Her brows furrow, concern and regret painted as clear as day on her face. She’s aware of Procter the Protector. This is a new advancement, new territory, but Vera doesn’t consider Kaz to be a cog in the motion. Oh, how she regrets ever calling Joan a liar.

“You came all the way down here to tell me that,” Joan observes with great distaste. “Have you learned nothing about delegation?”

“I have,” Vera chips in. The words taste stale. “Petty insults seem to motivate you, aside from the long game.” 

In the Governor’s uniform, Vera seems to shift. She feels out of place, displaced as it were. She’s tired. They both are.

Robbed of breath, Joan flinches. It’s a kangaroo court in the primitive stage. Tired of mythology infused with metaphor, Vera attempts to understand. With those shiny crowns, Vera reckons that she can fix this. The innocence of wanting to heal someone, something, broken remains true to her personality. Closer to the fire, she makes her approach though her silhouette twitches across the curtain.

"I fell," comes the curt response of her one-time superior, one-time something.

Joan remains adamant of the claim. Even at her weakest, she relies upon petty means of asserting dominance. Shadows never there presently loom underneath her eyes. On edge, muscles scream out from the tension. How she now understands the way Vera’s jaw screws tight and the wincing pain that follows. Now, she sits on the edge of the bed.

In adamancy alongside insistence, Vera knows she approaches a wilted rose with thorns. The stoic turns her cheek the other way, her nostrils flared in mild agitation. Someone as high and mighty as her often refuses to be touched. No matter who you are, it isn’t easy.

Did Lucifer _ever_ feel this immortal ache?

Joan wonders. Yet, she’s a woman of reason, not a bloody philosopher. Behind her back, against her spine, her pale hands make a fist. Her proud spirit has grown sore.

"You still won't tell me who did this to you," Vera mumbles. It’s not from nerves, it’s empathy that crackles and croaks.

Perhaps a part of her wishes to misdirect her little mouse from the blows. Time has passed. The bruises remain unsightly though the pain has lessened. She's endured far worse.

“For everything a reason,” the villain in the room protests.

“Not this,” she insists, fretting over this leviathan of a woman who remains startingly calm. Still, she drowns in that abysmal stare.

Let it go, let it die, let it go. The problem is: she can’t, they can’t.

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” she replies in a husky tenor. They stand across from one another, separated by a single, linoleum tile.

Even now, despite all the manipulation and cruelty, Vera aspires to reach out. She could never stop herself from falling over, she could never stop herself from coming closer. Predictable Vera remains a constant. Her shining eyes seem to say, "I'm sorry this happened to you" along with her gentle touch, a clammy palm upon a sallow cheek.

In pain, indicative of the subtle twitch, Joan’s throat tightens. She cannot recall the last time she felt not venerable, but _vulnerable_. Some wounds heal, some do not.

“It still hurts,” the Governor observes, her voice brittle and grief-stricken.

Joan doesn’t budge, her stare tearing her pupil asunder.

“You had such an affinity for healing broken things,” she snarls in her contempt.

“It’s not about that,” Vera pleas an empty bargain.

“Are you certain?”

What a hollow echo.

Aches and pains affect Joan far more than she cares to admit. A loss of appetite becomes apparent, her cheeks gaunt. Time, Joan finds, must be her ally to set her grandmaster plan in motion. She tries to dismiss her hurt, to remind herself that she is a pillar of strength, but she’s _human_ and therein lies the **root** of the problem.

“This is where you fail,” Joan quips. Tuts. Wags a condescending finger. Anything to distract from herself. “You still possess a heart.”

 _You’re too soft,_ Joan told her one night many moons ago in her Deputy’s kitchenette. The knife slid through a blood slab of lamb with ease. Vera fiddled with a loose curl from her unravelling bone. As if scolded, she gnawed on her bottom lip. Instead, she challenges that criticism.

 _Sometimes, the world needs softness,_ Vera retorted. The knife chopped quicker, harder. The wood split in two. Vera assured Joan that it was quite alright.

It’s Joan who beckons the scene to recollection. It’s Vera who quivers her bottom lip in that puppy-dog way of hers. She swallows her tears; the Devil wants none of them.

“Nurse Radcliffe can prescribe—” She begins, only to be silenced.

“—No,” Joan cuts her off sharply, reliving the hospital in chaotic memory. Her Deputy was there, during visiting hours, she had always been there. The letters, the music, the promise to bring flowers. Her hand flies out, Vera flinches; it all happens in seconds. No matter what is said and done, Vera cannot hide her concern. Her hand forms a fist which rests against her grooved forehead.

“I understand,” Governor Bennett lowers her voice, wounded by the trauma of another. Joan never meant to hurt her, broad shoulders stiffen. Recalling the motley of bruising, she acknowledges that this is not her story to tell. All she can do is listen. “I’m here for you, Joan.”

Ever the diplomat, Vera offers her rare scraps of kindness. In that predictable way of hers, her jaw tenses. Jake will never be able to loosen the screws. From a cardboard box, she procures a pair of sterilized latex gloves. Though they snap, they gape around her scrawny wrists.

"While I know you must consent to an internal examination, please allow me to do this. Begin the strip search or return to your cell: this is your choice.”

Somehow, this is better than Radcliffe’s intrusiveness and apathy. It’s another secret to be shared between them. The Fixer in need of Fixing sounds like a grand joke.

Curiosity fuels her compliance. Partly. Off, the pathetic excuse of a uniform comes. She folds the fragments into a neat pile which settles on the cot. For her own security, she smooths out the deep creases. Her ponytail sways to the right, her eyes never once leaving Vera’s murky ones. They’ve become grey in recent time: sadness or stress, Joan presumes.

Through the motions of the strip search, history resumes its cumbersome course. She shakes free the curtain of her hair. Her arms jut out. Her body bends forward, her hands find the cot, her breath hitches.

From behind, Vera moves carefully. Neither does she wish to receive the apex’s fatal bite nor does she wish to aggravate Joan furthermore. She’s suffered enough.

Careful fingers flex. Guilt flickers across Vera’s face. She massages the bruises, eases the ache with a salve, and shatters the two-way mirror of professionalism. Palms ghost over sore flesh and muscles. The purple has become green, but she isn’t a doctor. She cannot estimate the time tragedy takes to heal.

“I’m going to take a swab.”

At this point, this far forward, the analysis will be rendered useless. Joan consents, her nails grazing the sheet on the bed, their bodies hidden by the curtain so a lagger can’t bear witness.

There’s proper lubrication, a coasting past the curls and between the thighs. Her teeth sink into her lip though it’s not a smile Ferguson musters. Instead, her mind plays a foul trick on her, transporting her back to their ill-fated dinner and twisting the events. It could have ended this way: where she felt warm and bubbly from the wine, from good company.

"Vera," Joan croons. A gasp. "Governor..."

Or is just the familiar machinations – the manipulations – that has Ferguson _begging_ for it?

Gently, she brushes her gloved fingers over her slit. Her lips hover of the column of her neck. She enters with one. Then, two.

"M-more..."

Flushed, heat floods her veins. Fuck, Vera knows it’s wrong, but she’s eager to please. To satisfy. To heal whatever injury is there, inside or out. Again, her lip trembles. She fights back the sob in her chest, swallowing it down like a mojito without mint leaves.

Vera resumes her air of professionalism, taking a useless swab for samples.

"No, Joan. I'm afraid I can't comply. Standard protocol and all. Get dressed."

She preserves the swab, snaps off the gloves, and turns away to leave. Hesitation tethers her. Her lip is bleeding. She’s quick to swallow tangy metal.

"...But when you're healed, I can make an arrangement."

Try as she might, she’s not a robot. She still wants her: to coddle, caress, and to have her. Christ, they’re both fucked up.

Silence reigns. The beast in the room rises. Takes a stand. Rather than dressing, she presses herself again Vera, chest to fragile, foolish spine. Her hand settle on her hips. She unfastens the trousers. Dips her fingers inside. Lyssa’s frenzy and rage prevents her from inflicting damage upon her friends though Joan seems to be done with allies these days.

Some would call this misdirection transference. Others would call it projection. Joan brands it a temporary distraction: an opportunity to mold her disciple once more. 

Her acolyte makes for a canary trophy. Sex, in this way, allows for Joan to maintain _control_.

Vera gasps. She struggles against Hades’ hold. Weak at the knees, she trembles.

"O-oh, God. Oh..."

With a proper hand, Joan refuses to relent. She slams her palm onto her spine. Vera always adored the rough sort of treatment. Nothing too vanilla.

"Call me Governor," she sings lowly into the shell of that cherry red ear.

Whatever pride Vera had, she swallows. Bent over, her abdomen hits the cot. Face red, her mind suffers the shrapnel blow. She wants to help and if this does the trick, so be it. Mutual satisfaction, a level scale, is what she pines after.

"Guv'na,” she whines, “-please."

How _weak_.

Those skillful fingers render her indisposed to Joan's mercy. Logic flees the scene. Against her bum, she feels coarse curls and a familiar wetness.

"Your precious, little Jakey can't compare."

The fiend taunts. So much for happy endings.

With the spirit of the Maniae, Joan strikes. Sighing, her hand reaches back to ghost along the curvature of Ferguson's upper thigh. Vera attempts to create a steady momentum. Her God twists and curls inside her all while she mewls like some Whore of Babylon. Without warning, she comes, hard and fast, clenching around Joan.

They feast upon one another.

The conqueror takes the crowns. Rutting from behind, eliciting an electric friction and with a guttural moan, Joan follows. Full hips slam against Vera’s narrow ones. She grinds away the former pain, the hypotheticals, and all that they could have been.

Exuding shame, Vera buries her face into the bed. She neither wishes to see nor hear what she’s done. Minutes pass until Joan lets go. The indentations of her claws leave a harpy mark. Slowly and in quietude, they readjust the traces of their clothing.

Ever a querulous, demanding soul, Joan interrupts, a Morning Star returned to her former glory, all whilst brandishing a ghostly smirk.

"Do visit my room later so we may... carry on this discussion of yours, hm?"

Sluggishly, Vera withdraws from the bed, her hands loose and quivering. She picks up her pants and then the utility belt. The dented radio doesn’t hum a jaunty, electric tune. There is no grudge. On her own accord, she makes eyes with Medusa, but doesn’t turn to stone. Her fingers shake so much that she’s unable to tighten the knot – the noose – of her tie.

Ferguson does it for her. In the aftermath, the aftercare, she smooths back Vera’s baby hairs. Somehow, comforting her Deputy seems right.

While she does not forget what wrongs have occurred to her, she buries them for the sake of this sniffling woman who falls apart before her. In Joan's arms, she finds solace. A firm, proud chin nestles atop the crown of her head.

You're left to wonder.

Which of them tore out their heart first?


End file.
